Merry Molting Christmas
by WRTRD
Summary: Castle has an unusual midnight visitor. One-shot. Complete.


**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He gets in via the roof, of course. Takes a rope and a grappling hook and one, two, three, he's outside the window. It doesn't take much to open it, big as it is; after all, even in his state he has a certain amount of magic powers.

He's inside now. He'd always heard how big the place is, lavish, how over-the-top in ornamentation at this time of year. He slips his phone out of his jacket pocket; it catches on the frayed faux-fur trim, but he frees it, takes a few photos, and sends a quick text. "Thanks, elves, you little ghouls, I love you!"

The security in here is a joke. One jelly-belly laugh from him and Lucy's circuits are fried like blackened snapper. Won't be hearing that irritating, hectoring little voice any more. Kate really hates it; she should send him a thank you note. No postage necessary, just Santa, North Pole. Next, he picks up the snack that is so nicely set out on the table by the fireplace and carries it to the kitchen, where he disposes of it in the twinkle of a rheumy eye. He throws the graham crackers into the trash, tosses the milk down the drain, washes the glass, and helps himself to two fingers—okay, stumps of fingers—of the 28-year-old single malt that he finds in a cabinet. He'll take it into the living room and have a good look around.

Hey, this is a nice sofa, very nice sofa. Maybe he'll rest for a minute, take a load off, while he enjoys the Scotch. Oh, shit, he's molting. His skin does do that, comes off in chunks the size of a Triscuit. Hmm, Triscuit. That and some cheese will be good with the Scotch. He's hungry after rappelling down here, so he strolls back to the kitchen—these boots could do with resoling—and opens the fridge. Ah, what's this? He sees a slab of something that looks tasty, even swaddled in plastic wrap: Wyke Farms Vintage Cheddar. The name is promising, but holy shit, the price! A hundred and ninety bucks a pound for cheese? He's in. It's perfect for him, since he's about as vintage as you can get, ho ho ho. He cuts off a few slices, roots around in a cupboard for a box of crackers and a plate, and returns to the living room. Oh, man, he's left a trail of skin. Good, it'll scare the pants off Rick when he wakes up.

Oh, yeah, presents. His gift for Kate was permanently silencing Lucy; he brought _World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War_ for Rick. It's a first edition and signed by the author, Max Brooks, the son of Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft. "Here's to you, Max," he says, lifting his glass in salute. "Hell of a pedigree." He'd always liked the kid, who has a sensational sense of humor and is appreciative, too: with a Catholic mother and a Jewish father, he used to make out like a bandit at Christmukkah.

He'll put the book under the tree in a minute, as soon as he finishes his drink and his snack, both of which are age-appropriate, unlike the awful cookies and candy canes he's had to put up with for so long. And don't get him started on soy milk. Whose disgusting idea had that been, anyway? It's nice and warm in here; he'll just enjoy it for a few more minutes.

A barefoot clomp, clomp, clomp wakes him. Damn, he's busted. How long has he been asleep? At least it's still dark, although he'd left a light on in the kitchen. He checks to make sure his hat is still on—good, it is—and lifts his head. Rick has walked right by him without seeing him and is clearly aiming for the fridge. Should have known that someone with those eating habits would be a clomper.

"Hey! Why is the cheese out on the counter?" He looks indignant as he stands there in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt that says DEFINE NAUGHTY. "Lucy? Lucy? Has a giant mouse been in here eating my favorite Christmas-treat cheese? Lucy?"

"Don't bother, Rick. She's toast."

Heh, heh, heh. Rick must have jumped five feet. A little exercise will do him good. Wonder what his heart rate is?

"Santa?"

Dude looks like he's seen a ghost.

"Sort of."

"Sort of Santa?"

"Zombie Santa. I thought you'd have recognized me."

"There's a zombie Santa?"

"Of course. The first Santa died oh, I dunno, centuries ago."

"Santa's _dead_?"

"Wake up and smell your outrageously overpriced coffee. There have been a ton of Santas. Can't live forever, you know. I was Santa number seventeen and after I retired I used to shoot the breeze with number nineteen. That guy talks non-stop. You two should get together. Anyway, he told me about your place so I thought I'd drop in and see if he was exaggerating. He wasn't. Good cheese, by the way."

Rick is gawping. "You like cheese?"

"I tell you I'm zombie Santa and that's the best question you can come up with?"

"No, no, no. I have a million questions. Wait, I have to get Beckett. She won't believe this."

"Let her sleep. You and I can talk zombie; she's not a believer."

"But you'll make her one! This is incredible."

"Yeah, the in- is where she is. As in zombies are not credible. That's fine with me. Siddown and ask me whatever you want. And don't perch on my knee, for crying out loud."

And so they chat side-by-side on the sofa, zombie Santa enjoying a refill on his Scotch and polishing off the cheese as he answers questions for an hour.

"Time for me to head out, Rick. Zombie reindeer must be wondering what the hell I'm doing."

"There's a zombie Rudolph?" Rick's hair is on end, and not because he slept on it wrong.

"Have you not been paying attention? Geez, there's also my zombie Dasher, Dancer, Prancer—all of 'em."

"You're leaving?"

"Yup. Merry Christmas." And with that he puts his finger to the side of his nose, and disappears.

Rick is bereft. "Santa? Zombie Santa? What's wrong with me? Why didn't I take his picture? Or a selfie? How awesome would that be? Beckett would have had to believe me." He cleans off the coffee table, puts Santa's glass and plate in the dishwasher, and turns off the kitchen light. On his way back to bed, he stumbles over something on the living room floor. It feels kinds of creepy against his foot, and he leans over to get it. The ambient light outside combined with the twinkling lights on the tree are enough for him to identify it. He gasps.

"Zombie Santa's nose! Best Christmas ever."

 **A/N** A present for a friend who has to work on Christmas Eve. Happy Holidays everyone.


End file.
